


slip quietly between the bones

by Mira_Jade



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Basically: Hamilton and Jefferson try to one-up each other on the jerk scale, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Past Child Death, and the ladies are sensible and awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-05-05 20:02:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5388434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mira_Jade/pseuds/Mira_Jade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That evening, Martha Randolph, née Jefferson, was given the pleasure of finally putting a face to the name of one Alexander Hamilton - of whom she'd heard much of from her father's letters, and even more so from society's whispers and gossip. Her first impression was: he was shorter than her imagination had initially constructed him to be, but her second impression, quite understandably, was: <i>those eyes</i>, and she instantly knew half of the rumors she'd heard to be true.</p>
            </blockquote>





	slip quietly between the bones

The moving of the presidential seat from New York to Philadelphia was the first time she was able to visit her father since her marriage the year prior.  
  
It was an opportunity that Martha Washington Randolph, née Jefferson, leapt at; with she being but little accustomed to long periods of time in which her father's voice was absent from her life, and most certainly unwilling to begin adapting to such a void now. Her husband had puzzled over her request, with he himself being but dutifully bound to his own parents, but he had humored her wishes even when Martha had failed to find the wholly inadequate words within herself to explain her need to travel north. For she knew this as a irrefutable fact, as a self-evident truth: her father had ceased being merely her father the day her mother had died. He could not hide the vast scope of his devastation from her, not then, not when their world was falling apart from every seam, leaving strands of their lives hopelessly tangled about their shoulders. She had seen her father completely swept away on the currents of his grief, and she had stood by his side and helped him stay afloat at an age when she should not yet have had to comprehend the burden of doing so. She had irrevocably grown up, without warning and without choice, during the autumn of eighty-two, and, in a way, she had taken over her mother's place in her father's spirit as both confidant and familiar, and it was a place she would not relinquish for any offered riches in life.  
  
So far, she had enjoyed every moment of her visit to Philadelphia. The Washingtons were old faces to her memories, and rather than puzzling over the rather formal way her father presented her to the president, she smiled in a way she knew would have the older man's grave countenance melting as sure as winter in the face of the spring sun. Her smile only faltered when he told her how much she resembled her mother all the more so with every passing year, but she nonetheless thanked him for his words and meant her gratitude truly. She next laughed to refuse James Madison's politely kissing the back of her hand in favor of stepping into the circle of his arms so that she could kiss the air above his cheeks in the French way, and she wickedly enjoyed the way his skin flushed an impressive shade of red in reply.  
  
The evening of her arrival saw to a gathering of the entire presidential cabinet and their families, and that was where she finally put a face to the name of one Alexander Hamilton - of whom she had heard much of from her father's letters, and even more so from the ever circulating currents of society's gossip. Her first impression was a sort of amused surprise: he was shorter than she had constructed such a large presence to be in her imagination. Yet her second impression was, perhaps somewhat understandably: _those eyes,_ and she instantly knew the other half of the rumors she had heard as true.  
  
Alexander Hamilton was unusually reserved in her presence, as if he was not sure of what to make of her, Martha noted next, and a part of her - a part that was wholly her father, all sharp angles held together by liquid lines – felt satisfaction fill her for the sight, and she smiled a smile that showed her teeth in reply. His wife, however, was all ease and friendliness, especially upon seeing her expecting condition. Elizabeth Hamilton, who immediately entreated her to call her Eliza (much to her husband's muttering and glowering), was already the mother of five children, with four born of her body and one adopted by her heart – all of whom, but for toddling James Alexander, were currently gamboling about the room with the other young ones in various levels of gaiety and youthful exuberance.  
  
“You are certainly in for an adventure, Mrs. Randolph,” Eliza commented ruefully as she searched out her children in the gathered throng, her eyes carefully following her brood with all the canny awareness of a battlefield commander.  
  
“Yet it is one I look forward to,” Martha could not help her smile in reply as her hands fell to the nearly flat plane of her stomach in a gesture that was becoming more and more automatic with each passing day. Her father, standing just by her side and swirling his Madeira in his glass, watched the children with a furrowed brow, and she just barely kept herself from reaching out to touch the back of his hand in a reflexive gesture, knowing that he'd care not for such sympathy where the likes of Alexander Hamilton could see. “I ask only for a healthy child and an uncomplicated term; if granted such, I would count myself as blessed amongst women.”  
  
“Such a prayer is all any mother can ask for,” Eliza agreed, her dark eyes warm. “Through grace I have had only healthy children born to me, and none have been taken before their time. I know it is a blessing that not all are fortunate to share.”  
  
By her side, her father took a long draw of his wine, nearly draining the glass with his doing so. “Perhaps, then, Mrs. Hamilton,” Thomas Jefferson would not dare at familiarity with the treasury secretary's wife, even if it was freely offered to him, “you would agree with me when I say that she should not be traveling in her condition, especially not the distance between Virginia and Philadelphia.”  
  
“I am with child, not struck bedridden with the plague,” Martha swatted at her father's arm with her closed fan – drawing a raised brow and tucked grin from Hamilton, who was pretending not to be interested in the conversation, and failing. “As it is, I was left no choice in my visiting, for next year it will be quite impossible for me to do so with a babe so young, and I fear that it will be quite impossible for you to make the journey south to see me as soon as I would wish.”  
  
“My time will be quite taken by the president's side, it is true.” And she was not imagining the look her father then narrowed at Hamilton in the slightest. “There are many things here that would . . . fall off course without a steadying hand at the helm.”  
  
Hamilton did not even pretend that he had not a notion of what the other man meant with his thinly veiled words: he snorted, and only kept himself from laughing outright by adhering to a narrowed look shot from his wife.  
  
“Even so, you have nothing to fear, Mr. Jefferson,” Eliza soothed the situation over with a diplomat's masterful touch. “Carrying a firstborn child is different for every woman, but as your daughter is young and healthy, she should have every expectation of bearing an equally healthy babe.”  
  
Without the wine to distract him, her father's hand merely tightened about the stem of his glass. The thin line of his mouth tightened, even as he tried to summon a brittle smile in reply.  
  
“By the spring, I hope to give you a grandson with your name,” Martha said softly, more for her father's ears than their company. She watched and saw where, slowly, he exhaled; his clenched grip about the fine crystal in his hand relaxed, just barely. He would not answer such words aloud, not here, not with only two daughters living out of six children born to his wife . . . with each child surviving long enough to love and cherish and hope that _this time_ . . . Then, following her mother's death, his catching the eye of her half-sister (though such things were never spoken of, not even in whispers), only for Sally's baby to . . .  
  
. . . but that too was never to be mentioned, not even between them, and she would whisper not of it now, not even within the confines of her own mind.  
  
Yet, any further such thoughts were pushed aside by Hamilton coming around from behind the cushioned chair Eliza sat on to reach down and take his wife's hand in his own. Sleepily curled up on his mother's lap, little James smiled up at his father as if he were the newly dawned sun to his eyes. For a moment, Jefferson could not look away from the boy.  
    
“We too share your hope for a son in the near future – another one, that is,” Hamilton smiled charmingly down at Eliza to say, raising her hand to his mouth for a kiss. “Jamie here is now old enough for our attention to turn to an infant, and we are still young enough for more children - I fail to see why our family shouldn't grow all the more so.”  
  
Eliza accepted her husband's affection, but she raised a clear brow at him in warning, no doubt knowing the true nature of his game and approving of it but little. Martha felt a low, burning annoyance flare behind her heart as she glanced to see her father gesture for more wine.  
  
“When the time comes, I will pray that God bless your family with this child too,” Jefferson nonetheless muttered as he took another draw from his newly filled glass. Hamilton smiled a shark's grin in answer, clearly scenting blood in the water.  
  
“How about you, Mr. Secretary?” Hamilton inquired in an overly saccharine tone, pitched much too genially to be sincere. “You are not yet too old to remarry, and your tastes cannot be too hard to . . . _satisfy_ in your requirements for a wife.”  
  
_“Alexander,”_ Eliza hissed, twin spots of colour appearing high on her cheeks as she snatched her hand away from his, clearly annoyed that she and their children had been used as a convenient pawn to land such an underhanded verbal blow, no matter the opponent.  
  
_“Eliza,”_ Hamilton unerringly parroted his wife's voice. “I'm just saying that our dear state secretary - ”  
  
“ - should know exactly where to seek advice on such a matter, for you are an expert on impossible tastes, are you not?” Martha looked up, surprised at the shape and timbre of her father's reply. He was staring unblinkingly at Hamilton, she found, with the line of his teeth visible as his tight smile turned into an outright sneer. “Philadelphia must be ridden with unpleasant memories for you, I can only imagine. Please, give my regards to Mrs. Church the next time you have the pleasure of her correspondence, for I've ever found her insights to be most unerringly . . . _perceptive_.”  
  
Martha blinked, having only heard such vitriol from her father but rarely over the years. Caring not of who saw, she reached over to place a hand on his arm; even through her glove and the thick material of his jacket, she could feel the muscles beneath tense and quiver with barely restrained rage.  
  
“It has been a pleasure meeting you both,” placing herself just before her father, unsure if she was holding him back or standing between him and the suddenly thunderous looking Alexander Hamilton, Martha summoned her best smile to say. She glanced, and saw where Eliza had also stood in order to place a restraining hand on her own husband, and her smile too was a forced and brittle thing. Befuddled by the sudden deterioration of the scene, Martha then wondered exactly what her father had said without truly saying anything at all.  
  
But she pushed that thought aside as she instead steered him from the gathering and out into the gardens waiting just outside the assembly hall. The twilit air was fresh and cool underneath the unfortunate city-smell of Philadelphia, and she took a seat on one of the garden benches as her father paced, tearing a small line in the grass as he made a face and muttered under his breath all the while. Finally, he smoothed a hand back through the wayward curls of his hair, and sighed.  
  
“Perhaps,” Martha read his moods well enough to know when it was safe to remark. He blinked at hearing her voice, as if surprised by her presence. “I shall have to make my way north more often, as I do not think that your temper will fare well in my absence.”  
  
“I do not know what you mean, Patsy,” her father huffed to say. But she counted a victory for herself when he sat down on the bench next to her, leaning forward to rest his face in his hands with an agitated sigh. His eyes were black and brooding, and though she did not think that the conflict between the two men was satisfied - not nearly - he no longer held such a sharp, dangerous edge to his gaze. Swallowing her own sigh, she reached over to place a hand high on his back, letting him know of her presence with the barest of pressures.  
  
“Of course you do not,” Martha nonetheless allowed him his lie. She waited for one heartbeat, and then two before taking her moment . . . “But I do have a quarrel to put to you: you did not tell me that your charming foe was so very _handsome_ in your letters – such was remiss on your part, and would have had me journeying to Philadelphia much sooner than I did.”  
  
But her words had the desired effect: her father gave a derisive snort of laughter, with his eyes instantly crinkling in surprise to hear his humor voiced outright. He then shook his head to reply, “Next time, if you wish to wound me, child, use a knife. It's faster - and cleaner.”  
  
“But not nearly as fun. That I learned from the best, did I not?” she could feel her eyes glitter in the lingering twilight to say. She moved to lean her head against his shoulder, and felt as he relaxed even further to wrap an arm about her shoulders and hold her close. He was quiet for a long moment, even so, and she did not have to ask to know where his thoughts had strayed.  
  
And so, she sighed to whisper and say, “I remember them too, papa . . . all of them.”  
  
For that there were no words that could be said in answer, not truly. He simply held her tighter, and, together, they waited for their memories to pass in the dark.  
 

**Author's Note:**

>  **Martha Washington Jefferson Randolph** : Was the eldest daughter of Thomas and Martha Jefferson, and they were as close in real life as I portrayed them here. Martha Jefferson died when her daughter was only twelve, and Thomas was inconsolable; the younger Martha was his saving grace, and a first-hand witness to the depths of his grief. She and her sister Mary were the only two of six children to live to adulthood, and only Martha lived past the age of twenty-five – which must have been devastating in a way that I can't even begin to imagine. 
> 
> **The Passive Aggressive Insults** : Could both be Angelica Church's fault, though unwittingly. When she knew Jefferson in Paris, he was flirting with both her and her married friend whom she traveled with. While there, Sarah “Sally” Hemings was just beginning her affair with Jefferson, and was pregnant with their first child - a child which, sadly, would die soon upon returning to America. Sally was the half-sister of Jefferson's dead wife, to further tangle that sordid web, as Martha Jefferson's father had six children with a slave woman, and those half-siblings all fell to Martha Jefferson's ownership after her father's death. Interestingly enough, Sally could have stayed in France and raised her child as a free woman – for slavery was illegal in France, and she could have sued for her freedom. Instead, she decided to return to America with Jefferson under the stipulation that any children of theirs would be freed – which they all eventually were. Their affair lasted almost forty years, and after Jefferson's death, Sally spent the rest of her days with Martha Jefferson Randolph, who gave Sally her time – her freedom – in her elderly age. Though their affair was not common knowledge at the time, such a beautiful slave-girl pregnant in Paris must have caught Angelica's eye, and, smart thing that she is, I'm sure she drew the proper conclusions. Knowing what he knew, Hamilton must have found Jefferson's pretending to be a worldly disinterested academic philosopher grating – and Jefferson had much the same issues with Hamilton. 
> 
> That said, I do not think that Angelica was gossiping outright about her brother-in-law. But I can only imagine that she spoke of him and her sister often and lovingly – Jefferson's copy of the _Federalist_ was Angelica's, we know, for it had Eliza's note on the front page from when she mailed it to her sister in Europe. That, coupled with Lafayette's war-time anecdotes, must have painted quite the picture of Hamilton's friendship with Laurens. If Jefferson drew his own conclusions about there being anything more going on – even as a leap – well, Hamilton certainly confirmed any suspicions he did or did not have with his reaction.
> 
> And that's it for my rambling. Now I simply thank you all for reading, and hope that you enjoyed. :)


End file.
